


sonnet 43

by holographiccatpun



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Post Fall, i like to make the gay boy sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:21:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29695650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holographiccatpun/pseuds/holographiccatpun
Summary: I love thee with the breath,Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,I shall but love thee better after death.
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 10
Kudos: 12





	sonnet 43

Curt wakes up in the hospital. He’s broken and bloodied, and every time he asks for Owen the nurses say he’s just down the hall. None of them have the heart to tell him they didn’t find any other survivors 

Curt gets patched up, healed, and when he asks the doctors where Owen is, a perfect stranger has to break the news. 

When he leaves the hospital, he finds the nearest dive bar and stays until they close. 

Curt sends in his formal leave request, half sure he fucked up the paperwork. He’s never asked for time off before. 

He packs up all the things of Owen’s he still had. Stolen sweaters, rings forgotten on his nightstand, bottles of cologne, photographs and old records and all the trinkets that make Curt’s chest hurt just looking at them. 

He sits with a pile of things in front of him, boxes in reach, and an audience of bottles as he goes through piece by piece. He wants to keep everything, but the thought hurts worse than giving things back to Owen's family. 

When he flies out to London, he gets a hotel room. He wants to stay in their apartment, but the sheets would smell like Owen and Curt can’t bear it. 

Cleaning out the apartment is like being smothered in his favorite childhood blanket. The colors are faded, the fabric threadbare, but he remembers the vibrance that was once there—the memories they had. 

The apartment doesn’t smell like Owen. The air is stale, thick with dust and damp. Curt thinks he can smell cologne, just like he thinks he feels an arm around his shoulders or a hand in his back pocket. He isn’t entirely sure if it’s his imagination or Owen’s ghost trying to welcome him home. 

He takes clothes out of the closet and sorts out his own. He takes time folding and boxing Owen’s favorite shirts, fingers tracing the stitching and the patterns in the fabric. Curt’s fingers find holes in some where field mending has come loose around the edges and runs his fingertips over the fraying material.

He remembers stitching the same spots on Owen as he mended his own clothes. Owen hissed at the tug of his stitches or pricking his finger, the fire crackling softly beside them. Curt pressed kisses to any skin he could reach, shushing Owen without a word.

After clothes are boxed and set aside, linens nestled in between to fill space, Curt moves to the walls.

Owen’s decor is lacking, to say the least. It’s a combination of not wanting to poke holes in the plaster and not having anything to put up. Curt used to come over and complain that he could at least put up a painting. 

Then Owen would ask for suggestions, and Curt would leer, and all too soon they’d fall into bed, decor the last thing on their minds.

Curt shakes the memory away and turns to the bookshelves. The only personal effects Owen has here- _had_ here, are his books. Curt packs them away slower than the rest of his things, both out of care and the sheer number of them. Some library out there will be happy. The librarian who has to catalog all of these, perhaps not

A book slips out of his hand, well-worn spine landing with a muffled clap against the rug. The pages are a yellowed cream, aged and traced by adoring fingertips, and-

Curt’s heart catches in his throat. 

Nestled between flowery couplets, a strip of eight small photographs. Two men in a photo booth, one with a clearly broken nose and the other with a split lip, smile at the camera then each other, and then, as the pictures go on, lean in and kiss one another. 

Curt tastes blood. He falls to his knees, a shaky hand coming up to touch his lips. He cradles the strip in his palm, ghosting over the line of Owen’s jaw. They were so young, so naïeve. So _happy_.

A hiccup leaves Curt’s chest as he turns it over in his hand, tears falling unnoticed, unbidden. 

_Coney Island 4/7/49  
He will be the death of me_

**Author's Note:**

> :) 
> 
> i have a thing for hurtin curt ig. might make a second chapter with owen’s funeral, idk
> 
> tumblr: holographiccatpun  
> discord: boycoded dogbeing#6969


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